


Domestic Blitz

by dualce



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Domesticity, Everybody Lives, M/M, Slow Burn, awkward courting, glacial build it seems like, hobbit lifestyles are the envy of other races, yay!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-08
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2017-12-04 15:45:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/712386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dualce/pseuds/dualce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo blinked and squinted. He considered, briefly, closing the door, so that when he opened it again it'd be like it should be. Empty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. demanding of attention

**Author's Note:**

> I know there have been a few of these fix-it stories already, but I wanted to give it the old college try!

Bilbo blinked and squinted. He considered, briefly, closing the door, so that when he opened it again it'd be like it should be. Empty. He'd indulged in a nightcap of honey mead and nodded off in his favorite armchair, book splayed open upon his lap, only to awaken to a hammering on his door, rudely demanding his attention. And when he'd opened it, Thorin Oakenshield stood there, like he had some years before; hair more silvered, white scars fading into the crags of his rough-hewn face, but still the same hawkish gaze, fierceness wrapped thicker than the cloak around him.

In fact, if it wasn't for the heads of Balin and Ori peering around Thorin's shoulders, Bilbo would remain unconvinced that Thorin actually was there, and not back in his mountain kingdom, stomping around and glaring, or whatever kings did to rule their subjects. But the presence of the two other dwarves brought him back to himself, and he stepped back, waving them inside.

"Well -- good to see you! Come in, come in." Bilbo managed a welcoming smile, which Thorin did not reciprocate. Balin and Ori smiled genially as they came in, however.

"Sorry to surprise you so late in the evening, laddie," Balin said, diplomatic as ever. "We are glad to see you after so long a journey. Would you be so kind as to lend us a room for the evening?"

"Of course," Bilbo said automatically. He was surprised -- pleasantly so -- as Ori stepped closer and hugged him tightly. "Oof," he said, but awkwardly reached around to pat the dwarf on the back.

"It has been too long!" Ori exclaimed, stepping back.

"Indeed," Bilbo said, and then looked between the three of them. "Some tea? I know it's late --"

"Please," Balin said, echoed by Ori. Thorin, who had not spoken a word yet, shot them a look, but acquiesced with a slight nod.

"Of course," Bilbo said again, and hesitated before them before turning on his heel to the kitchen. "Dwarves!" He muttered as he set the kettle to boil, wondering what had brought them so far from Erebor, and without a letter preceding them, to boot. Hopefully nothing unpleasant, but then Thorin would never leave if there was cause to defend his home, that much Bilbo was certain of.

He carried a tray out and paused in the hall to see cloaks and packs and weapons draped everywhere, before sighing and hurrying on his way to the parlour, where Thorin was packing more logs into his fireplace. Balin had settled into his favorite armchair, moving his empty mug to the floor, and Ori had sat himself on the stool, leaving only one chair left, which Thorin soon arranged himself in, although narrowly, as hobbit-sized furniture did not really accommodate anything bigger than hobbits.

"Oh, well." Bilbo opened his mouth to say something, but snapped it shut and instead handed out the steaming cups. Thorin was last to receive his tea, by virtue of distance from the entrance, and he looked at Bilbo from underneath his brow, and murmured something that may have been thanks or something else entirely.

"Can I get you anything else?" Bilbo said, holding the tray to his chest, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. He found he was mostly saying this to Thorin, and quickly turned to extend his question to the other dwarves.

"Certainly some --"

"Oh sure! Some chips --"

"No," Thorin finally spoke, cutting off Balin's and Ori's requests. Balin did not look particularly disturbed, but Ori loosed a small, disappointed sigh, and looked hungrily down at his tea.

Bilbo moved to the side of the room and tucked the tray underneath an arm. "So, what brings you to the Shire?" He did not mean to sound accusing, but he was curious and slightly worried, although the dwarves' manners did not bring about any suspicion -- certainly any danger would be spoken outright. He did not miss the glance that went between Ori and Balin, and their look to Thorin, who stared into the fire as if he had not even heard Bilbo speak.

Eventually Balin cleared his throat, and turned to smile at Bilbo. "Perhaps that would be better left for the morning. It has been a long journey, a bit of rest would do us good. But rest assured, nothing of a foul sort."

Bilbo held up a hand. "Certainly, I understand. Ah -- I can get you some blankets and pillows, and you are free to --" He waved a hand at the room. "Make yourself comfortable." He darted off without waiting for confirmation from anyone. He was sorely confused by this unexpected visit but glad to see friends from the Company, nonetheless. 

If Thorin could be called a friend. They had not left off on bad terms; Thorin had been gravely injured but had spoken honestly to Bilbo. Even if the words spoken weren't quite an apology, Bilbo had taken it for one, certain down to his bones that he would never hear anything quite like that from Thorin again.

And now he was here, years later, still the same commanding, powerful presence, but there was a measure of courtesy in his bearing that had not been there before. Perhaps he had grown a little wiser as a king.

Bilbo closed his eyes for a moment. He was running ahead of himself, and that would not do. Better to wait until the morning than to entertain such thoughts, and with that in mind, he carried some bedding back to the parlour, and passed it along to Ori, who took it with a yawn.

"Well," Bilbo said. "Good night. Then. Um."

"Good night," Balin said kindly. Ori repeated the same words with a sleepy smile, and still Thorin said nothing, even when Bilbo gave him a look, but his eyes were on Bilbo until he disappeared through the doorway, and lingered even after, though of course Bilbo could not see that.

***

Bilbo awoke suddenly and alertly, as he had those years ago, but instead of peering around the doorframe cautiously he strode to the kitchen to get some water boiling, and then went to the parlour to check on his guests.

And stopped abruptly. His mouth opened, and then did not quite close as he took in the sight of his parlour: clear, empty of all except Thorin, who sat where Balin had last night, in Bilbo's favorite yellow armchair. He held a small knife in his hand, spinning the point of the blade against the tip of his finger, and when he caught sight of Bilbo he tucked it away and stood up.

"Where are -- where's Ori and Balin? Did something happen? Is something wrong?" Bilbo's voice rose with every word, and Thorin held up a hand to arrest his alarm.

"Nothing. That is, they are well." At Bilbo's continuing stare he clarified. "There is no reason for concern," he said gruffly.

"No?" Bilbo said, and raised his hands. "Then why -- are you? Did they not --?" 

Thorin stared gravely back at him, and his mouth pinched shut.

Bilbo dropped his hands after a moment, and looked around his parlour as if he could find the answer somewhere, since it didn't appear like one would be forthcoming from Thorin. "Are they coming back?"

Thorin looked down at his feet, then firmly back at Bilbo. "No."

An odd silence descended as Bilbo processed this, opening his mouth as several things came to mind and closing it upon dismissing the words. Thorin was wearing his greatcoat, even though it was near summer, even though he was inside. He pulled his fingers through the furred trim, then stopped the motion, stilling his hands. It almost seemed as if he was -- nervous.

That could not be, Bilbo immediately decided. The King Under the Mountain had never have been nervous, not even facing a horde of orcs, or a dragon.

"So." Bilbo decided to forge on, and put his hands on his hips for a lack of a better thing to do. "Breakfast?" No matter what, he had a houseguest, and manners meant he should offer what he had.

Thorin dipped his head, almost in relief -- but that couldn't be true, either. Bilbo shook his head as he turned to the kitchen. After a moment he could hear Thorin's footsteps trailing after him, and stop in the doorway as Bilbo went to the cooker.

Bilbo took the kettle from the cooker, already vigorously boiling, and started some tea seeping into two sizable mugs. These went on the table, followed by two plates and some silverware, and then he turned around to see Thorin blocking the door to the pantry.

"Well, sit. Please." Bilbo gestured to the table, and Thorin moved to seat himself. Bilbo gathered rolls and jam and some cuts of cured ham and anything else that struck his fancy, and before long he had set up a small feast for the two of them.

Lastly was a napkin, one for each of them. Thorin took his from Bilbo's hand. He gave it a passing glance and set it on the table next to his plate.

Bilbo chose to ignore this. He tucked his into his collar and then dug in. Thorin, fortunately, did not wait for an invitation this time, and quickly set about clearing his plate. When Bilbo finished his serving, and helped himself to another, he paused over Thorin's plate. 

"More?"

Thorin pushed his plate just slightly forward, and Bilbo added more food, even though he thought it could not pain Thorin to say ‘please’ or ‘thank you.’ Or even serve himself. Perhaps he had changed since their journey -- the ability to perform simple duties seemed to have disappeared.

After they were done, Thorin pushed himself up from the table. His gaze briefly met Bilbo's, but when he spoke, it was to the table. "I will go for a walk," he said, and promptly left.

Bilbo frowned as the door swung shut, and spent a few moments staring in exasperation at the dirty dishes and table in front of him, then he got up to clear away everything. When Thorin came back from where ever he was going, Bilbo would ask him what he was doing, here in the Shire. At Bilbo's home. With no dwarf to attend him.

Curious.


	2. time and a lot of practice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dwarves," Bilbo muttered as the door swung behind him, and he did not even care if Thorin had heard him this time. He paused, and pulled at his lip. Wasn't he planning on doing something, earlier? Oh -- muffins!

Thorin did not come back immediately, and Bilbo busied himself with his small daily chores. Dwarves may come and go, but letters of correspondence still needed attending to, and there was a rough draft of a story to look over, and some muffins that could be baked for later today, if Thorin was wont to stay longer. Which he may. Or may not. Who knew what he was thinking? Certainly not Bilbo.

It was when he was nestled warmly in the bay window, the one that let the midday sun shine through so clearly, that Thorin came back. Not a knock was made, but Bilbo could clearly hear the door thump open, then slam shut, and Thorin's heavy footsteps in the entryway. And then a long, suspicious scraping sound, and Bilbo hurried to untangle himself from his throw and set his book aside. He ran to the front door, and there was the sight he was afraid to see: Thorin cleaning his boots off on his mother's chest.

"Wait just a minute!"

Thorin looked over his shoulder, foot hovering in the air. He did not appear in the least bit sorry about his actions, but puzzled by Bilbo's indignation.

Bilbo closed his mouth on the harsh words that entered his mind and held up his hand. "Don't wipe your boots off there!" He stepped past Thorin to the door and opened it, then reached back to tug on Thorin until he had followed him back out the door. "Here," he said, pointing down at a spot next to the steps. "Clean them here, then take them off when you come in."

"Off?" Thorin's voice was gruff, disbelieving.

"Yes, off!" Bilbo looked up at him. "Believe me, my house is kept as neat as any kingdom! You'll not be stepping on anything or tracking mud in at any rate." He turned to go back inside, and did not see Thorin's hesitation, his look from his boots to the door that was swinging shut behind Bilbo.

"Dwarves," Bilbo muttered as he entered the hall, and he did not even care if Thorin had heard him this time. He paused, and pulled at his lip. By now he had been distracted by Thorin and completely forgotten his earlier resolve to question the dwarf on his plans in the Shire, yet he just _knew_ he was missing something. Oh -- muffins!

The kitchen was a familiar place to Bilbo. Although he would not pride himself on saying he was a fantastic baker, he tried, and things made with warmth and cheer always tasted pleasant, even if they did look a bit clumsily made.

Thorin's footsteps -- surprisingly quiet without his boots, but loud to Bilbo, who did not often hear the sounds of another in his home -- announced his arrival in the doorway to the kitchen. A lack of further noise announced that he had not moved, and Bilbo knew without looking that Thorin was standing there watching him.

“There are almonds in the pantry, towards the back, in a netted bag.” Bilbo tipped his head to the entrance of the pantry, and at the same time glanced at Thorin, who quickly swung his gaze away. There was a time, once, where Bilbo might have kept quiet, deferring to the majesty that was Thorin Oakenshield, to the thick presence that settled over every room he entered and threatened to smother weaker personalities, but that time had passed. Now it was Bilbo’s home that Thorin occupied, and his rules the dwarf must follow. And if he didn’t like it, well. He was obviously quite familiar with the door, wasn’t he?

“And the pecans, please. They’re on the same shelf,” Bilbo added, and turned back to the liquid ingredients he was mixing up. He could hear the faint movements of Thorin shuffling around in the pantry, and then Thorin dropped two bags on the counter next to him.

“I need half a cup of each,” Bilbo said, and when Thorin didn’t move he glanced up, noting Thorin’s frown. “Chopped up and then mixed with the dry ingredients.”

“I need to --” Thorin made a noise between his teeth, a hissed sigh before he picked up the nuts and divvied them out correctly, taking the knife Bilbo placed in front of him in one large hand. He weighed it for a moment, as if testing its mettle, and then took to the chopping board with concentrated focus. Bilbo pretended for the sake of both of them not to hear him.

“Pour the wet into the dry, slowly, and mix thoroughly,” Bilbo said, handing the bowl of wet ingredients over to the dwarf before readying the tins with grease to keep the mixture from sticking.

At this, Thorin looked disconcerted and annoyed, but took the bowl of wet ingredients from Bilbo, and proceeded to scrape out the liquid into the other bowl and mix swiftly, almost violently, the mixture nearly slopping outside the bowl. 

Well, as long as it was mixed, Bilbo thought. Delicacy could come later, with time, and a lot of practice. “Thank you,” he said, reaching in front of the dwarf to grab the bowl from him, and carrying it over to the cooker to pour the mixture into the baking tin. He’d thought Thorin would march off in a snit, his enforced duties fulfilled, but instead he came to lean over Bilbo’s shoulders and watch closely as Bilbo filled two tins, making twelve muffins total. Before sliding the metal tins into the cooker to bake up, he sprinkled a touch of brown sugar on top.

“There,” Bilbo said, shutting the door and straightening up. He wiped his hands clean on a dishtowel, which he handed over to Thorin. “Now I’ll just need to keep an eye on them and take them out when they’ve gone crisp on the top.”

Thorin said nothing, but Bilbo did not expect him to. He stepped around the dwarf’s great hulk to busy himself with cleaning, picking up the knife and the bowls and setting them into the sink. He was just about to ask Thorin to help with the task, to test how far the dwarf could be domesticated when Thorin spoke up.

“And you’ll eat these for dinner?”

Bilbo rolled his sleeves up to his elbows to keep them out of the water. “Oh no, I figure we’ll have them for breakfast tomorrow.” He started the sink and let it fill, adding a touch of soap. “Speaking of breakfasts, how long do you plan to stay?” He turned his head, and Thorin was closer to the door than before, half-turned as if to go.

“I’ll need to plan, you see, if there’s two of us,” Bilbo faltered to a finish, puzzled.

Thorin paused, head bowed to fit under the frame of the doorway. “No need to worry. I will see to it that you have all that you require,” he said with finality, and left before Bilbo could sputter out a protest.

“But I don’t mean _that_ ,” Bilbo said to the empty air, and sighed as he dipped his hands into the warm water.

***

Bilbo had thought the dwarf would disappear back out the door, but instead Thorin planted himself in Bilbo’s favorite armchair until dinner, scrupulously going through his bags to take care of his many weapons. It was only when they left the kitchen after another stilted meal did Bilbo realize he had yet to put Thorin in one of the guest bedrooms.

“One moment!” He said, berating himself at not airing out the room earlier in the day. It was slightly musty, but otherwise clean, and Bilbo left several fragrant candles going along with the fire in the hopes the scent would revive the stale air.

He came back to see Thorin was _again_ in his yellow chair, staving off another chance of a return to Bilbo’s typical evening routine, and his hands indignantly found their way to his hips for the second time that day before he remembered his manners. 

He took a deep breath. “A drink?” He offered, and Thorin dipped his head in agreement.

Bilbo was puffing a little by the time he came back into the drawing room, ready to be off his feet and settled in for the night. A fire had been built up -- Bilbo was glad to see Thorin was capable of that, at least -- and Thorin was stretched out, feet extended in front of him and hands cupped around his belly. He sat up and took the proffered cup from Bilbo, turned it in his hands to admire the neat, hand-painted flowers before taking a sip. He gave a low murmur of appreciation at the taste, more than he had done for any of Bilbo’s meals yet, Bilbo thought with annoyance.

“A Bunce specialty,” Bilbo commented, although of course Thorin would not know the name. He nodded in agreement anyways, eyes on his cup, and for a moment Bilbo could study Thorin without his notice. The fire cast everything in a warm glow, including Thorin, softening the dense cut of his patterned robes and the angular hardness of his heavy belt, thick as a rope. His widow’s peak had grown sharper with age, but it, along with the silver in his dark hair, only served to make him seem nobler in his bearing. Even the scars that tracked across his face did not detract from his stark handsomeness, and Bilbo swallowed around the knot in his throat, realizing the old ache that lingered, though it had lessened with time, was now thrumming painfully back to life.

Thorin lifted his head at the sound and his eyes bore into Bilbo’s before the hobbit quickly turned his head away, contenting himself with studying the fire and nursing his drink as he contended with his own thoughts. Gradually his attention drifted on to other matters and away from the dwarf, whose own eyes were lingering more on his profile than on any other surface.

By the time Bilbo finished his drink, he was yawning. “I’ll show to you your room,” he said, and they both stood. He tried to help with one of the bags at Thorin’s feet but Thorin caught it quickly, gathering all his belongings, few as they were, into his arms. Bilbo let it go, feeling discomfited by Thorin’s odd behavior -- although no more than usual -- and led the way to the guestroom.

“It’s not much,” he said, smiling, “but it’s, well.” He shrugged and let the manner lie unsaid. It was and never would be Erebor, with all its riches and grand halls and caverns.

“It is enough,” Thorin said solemnly, and Bilbo chuckled quietly.

“Yes, it is,” he said, and crept out the door while Thorin stood studying the small bed -- small for a dwarf, that is. “So, goodnight.” Bilbo bobbed his head and then took himself to bed without waiting for Thorin’s reply.


	3. entirely unprepared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Um,” Bilbo said, holding onto the doorframe for support. “What is that?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank y'all for the comments, kudos, bookmarks, subscriptions and for reading! I'm quite flabbergasted at the reception, (and very nervous now!), but very appreciative. <3
> 
> Not sure if this needs to be warned about, but just in case - short mention/description of (animal) blood towards the middle/end of this chapter.

Thorin was awake before Bilbo yet again, a practice which spoke well about his commitment to his kingly duties, but seemed far too early for Bilbo to even begin to contemplate having a discussion, much less making decisions for an entire kingdom. Thorin had been quiet in his morning activities, but had apparently grown bold, or perhaps hungry enough to rummage through the pantry for foodstuffs, Bilbo discovered as he stumbled sleepily through the hall.

“Morning,” Bilbo said, leaning against the doorway, rubbing the sleep dust from the corners of his eyes. Thorin spun around with a slightly guilty expression, a loaf of bread clutched in one hand. He stared intently at Bilbo, long enough for him to run a self-conscious hand through his bed-tousled hair and tug a little tighter on his patchwork robe. Perhaps he was surprised to see him up and out of bed -- Thorin was already dressed in a heavy, plain jerkin and trousers, wearing thick, nubby socks that seemed out of character for a king and made Bilbo’s lips curl a little in amusement.

Thorin caught the movement and seemed to start a little, dropping his hand down until it was nearly behind his back, as if that would somehow hide the bread from Bilbo’s view. “Good morning,” he said belatedly, clearing his throat. “I did not hear you…” he trailed off, frowning past Bilbo as if the floor had betrayed him by not sounding any creaks of alarm.

Bilbo eyed the bread, Thorin’s awkward stance, and the rest of the pantry, which seemed slightly more disordered than usual, as if Thorin had been poking into every cupboard and container as he decided what he was going to eat. Well, then, Bilbo thought. “What are we having?” Bilbo asked, crossing his arms across his chest.

“We --? Ah,” Thorin glanced around them, apparently noticing they were indeed in the pantry, as if he were not already freely helping himself, and seemed at a loss for words, and action. Which was not a surprise to Bilbo, who had gained a sense of Thorin’s domestic skills from their brief foray into baking yesterday. Notably, that they were very lacking.

If Bilbo had been slightly more awake, he would have enjoyed teasing Thorin a bit, letting the dwarf stutter and squirm like a child with his hand stuck in a biscuit jar, but a great yawn interrupted him. Instead Bilbo would let the sacking of his pantry go uncommented, which he thought was rather magnanimous of him first thing in the morning before tea.

“Sit down, I’ll get something started,” he said, turning round to head into the kitchen and put the pot on for tea. “Bring the bread!”

Bilbo drowsily went through the motions of scrambling some eggs and frying up a bit of the cured ham they had eaten the previous morning, slowly growing more alert, especially once the tea was steeped and ready for a dash of milk. Thorin had taken his place at the table and was watching Bilbo shuffle back and forth through the kitchen with more clear-eyed, avid curiosity than he ought to have in the early hours. He sat like a great, muted, and forlorn mountain in the dining room, as out of place in Bilbo’s snug and cozy home as his own socks seemed to be on him.

Speaking of mountains -- “So,” Bilbo began, and hastened to finish his sentence when he saw Thorin’s shoulders tense. He might go stomping out through the door yet. “So, everything is well at the Lonely Mountain, then?” 

Thorin’s shoulders relaxed a fraction, but still held taut. He nodded and Bilbo tried not to roll his eyes. Getting Thorin to speak was clearly going to be a difficult task. It was not like before -- Thorin did not take his measure and dismiss him immediately, not even bothering to make an attempt at civility, but instead watched him more carefully than ever, as if he expected Bilbo to -- what?

Bilbo frowned and promised himself to follow that thread of inquiry later. “Who _is_ at the helm of Erebor, while you’re away?” He asked, trying to prompt the conversation.

“Fili and Kili.”

Bilbo raised an eyebrow as he flipped the eggs in the pan.

“Nominally,” Thorin amended, as if he could sense Bilbo’s skepticism, even if he couldn’t actually see Bilbo’s expression from his place at the cooker. “Balin is there also, as is their mother. Between the two of _them_ …matters are kept well in hand.”

“And Fili and Kili are too.” Bilbo smiled and cast a look at Thorin, who merely nodded, looking deep in thought, perhaps rethinking his decision to leave his nephews in charge while he was at Bag End. 

“A little less lonely, now?” Bilbo tried once more to lighten the mood, keeping the smile on his face as he looked over his shoulder.

Thorin’s head jerked up and he gave Bilbo an intense, startled look.

“What with Fili and Kili and your people returning, and all that,” Bilbo hurried to add, wondering if he had given some sort of offense. 

“Ah.” Thorin blinked and looked away. “Yes. Perhaps.” And he said no more.

Bilbo felt the atmosphere had darkened even more and kept the sigh from escaping his lips, although barely. He finished the eggs and set the table, and they ate well, if not with great vigor as before.

Thorin then disappeared before Bilbo finished clearing up, and Bilbo huffed in frustration. He did not mind cleaning up after a guest so much as he minded Thorin’s tight-lipped responses and lack of manners. A simple ‘thank you’ would not go amiss and would do much to make up for Thorin’s strange recalcitrance.

Such thoughts kept Bilbo preoccupied all the way to his bedroom, intending to change into his day clothes when he met Thorin in the hallway, leaving the guest bedroom. The dwarf was once again in his greatcoat, fully outfitted with a bow and quiver of arrows across his back and several daggers and knives strapped to waist.

Bilbo paused, taken aback by the amount of weaponry, and stared, perplexed. “Are there orcs about?”

Thorin stopped at the question and cocked his head. “No, not here. Unless -- have you heard otherwise? If there is cause to think --” His gaze grew sharper and he looked ready to storm off with Orcrist drawn.

“No, no!” Bilbo shook his head sharply to stop the wild speculation, holding a hand up to forestall any more miscommunications. “As far as I know. Which means there aren’t any!” He added quickly, well aware of what might happen if Thorin got the notion in his head. The poor Shire would never be the same after a fearsome dwarf warrior made the rounds.

“I merely asked about your…” Bilbo said, waving a hand up and down in Thorin’s direction.

Thorin glanced down at the weapons strapped about him and then back up. “No, no need to worry for orcs,” he said abruptly, and went around Bilbo before the other could reply.

Bilbo spun around on his heels. “So why are you --?” But he was already speaking to Thorin’s back, growing smaller until it turned, out of sight. Bilbo sighed deeply and shook his head in exasperation. Sometimes, he concluded, it was better not to know.

***

Bilbo opened the door, and his mouth, only for nothing to come out.

Thorin apparently took this as a good sign, and straightened in height a little more, something akin to triumph in his stature. A little bit of blood, not yet congealed, coiled out of the bag that he held clapped over his shoulder and dripped to the stone next to his sturdy boots.

“Um,” Bilbo said, holding onto the doorframe for support. “What is that?”

Thorin frowned as if he questioned Bilbo’s eyesight, or perhaps his intellect. “Meat,” he said, untying the end of the bag to reveal a deer’s head, glassy-eyed and--

“ _Why_ ,” Bilbo managed, entirely unprepared to be dealing with this. He should have known -- why else would the dwarf have taken his bow?

“To eat.” Thorin seemed surprised to have to explain himself, and looked down at Bilbo, eyebrows furrowed. “I know you have eaten deer on our journey to reclaim Erebor -- or did you have a strong distaste for it you did not mention?”

“I -- ,” Bilbo stammered, and even as he was shaking his head Thorin was glaring at him as if he did not quite believe him. “I don’t mind it at all! Properly smoked, of course, otherwise it could be a bit gamey, especially at the beginning of the season,” he rambled, and Thorin nodded along as if it was fascinating. Bilbo took a deep breath. “Never mind that! That’s not what --”

“Do you have a place to skin and clean it?”

“No! _That is why_ I buy my meat from the butchers,” Bilbo said, releasing his grip from the door to wave an emphatic hand in the general direction of the butcher’s shop down the road.

Thorin frowned a little at that, but then glanced around them until his eyes settled on some spot that seemed satisfactory, although _how_ Bilbo could not tell. “No matter.” He turned on his heel and took to the bench that sat in front of the path, dumping the bag onto the bench.

“Oh, no,” Bilbo said, “you can’t!”

Thorin was stripping off his greatcoat and hanging it off the fence. He looked over his shoulder at Bilbo. “I know how to dress a deer,” he said, annoyed.

Bilbo pressed a hand to his forehead. “I know that, I just -- not there -- I _sit_ there!”

Thorin paused. “Where, then?” He asked, the tiniest bit of impatience in his voice.

Bilbo pointed emphatically down the path of Hill Row. “The butcher’s at Hobbiton,” he said, exasperated, and when Thorin frowned again he let more of the exasperation spew out. “I have neither the means to cure it or the smokehouse to let it dry!”

A long moment of silence passed, Bilbo blustering in the doorway of the front entrance and Thorin frowning at him by the fence.

“I see,” Thorin said slowly, turning to slide the coat back on his shoulders. “I will take it there.”

“Oh,” Bilbo breathed, watching Thorin easily heft the deer over his shoulder. “Yes, good.” He nodded as Thorin passed him and headed down the path. “And then we will talk when you get back,” he said to the empty air. “Because clearly, clearly -- well.” He looked around to see if anyone was about, and then he went back inside and made himself a cup of tea.

***

By evening, Bilbo’s vexation with Thorin had waned, and he was growing a bit concerned that the dwarf had not yet returned. What could be taking so long? Had Thorin somehow been struck by another inner bout of ambition to hunt, perhaps some unfortunate hares or hapless grouse, something smaller and more agreeable to Bilbo’s taste?

It had been rather abrupt of Bilbo to snap at Thorin like that. In hindsight, Thorin was attempting to do him a kindness. Although ill advised, it was well intentioned, and Bilbo did enjoy a bit of variety in his meals and had not had deer in quite some time. Perhaps Thorin hadn’t realized Bilbo’s home was unequipped to handle such large and messy process. Most likely Erebor had all sorts of devices and furnished rooms to preserve meat, much more sophisticated than what the Bag End could offer.

Then again -- Bilbo chewed on a hangnail, thinking. Thorin had gotten lost not just once, but twice on his way to Bag End previously. Perhaps he had lost his way again?

His fears were allayed when the front door swung open and shut with a comforting thud, and Bilbo left the kitchen to greet Thorin.

Thorin was bent to deposit his boots by the doorway, and he straightened as Bilbo drew nearer. The relief of not seeing any dead animals hanging off of Thorin’s broad shoulders made the tension he did not know he was holding melt away, and Bilbo’s welcoming smile came much more easily.

Thorin looked a little startled as Bilbo came to stand before him, and Bilbo thought he might be anxious about the deer. Well, most likely not, being as Thorin seemed unaware, or more likely, unconcerned with the social niceties that made the world revolve more smoothly, but Bilbo felt he ought to know he held no hurt feelings and rather appreciated Thorin’s effort at contributing to the pantry.

“How was it at the butchers?” Bilbo said, clasping his hands in front of him.

Thorin gave this question serious consideration, then replied, “Fine.”

Bilbo waited, and his smile slipped a bit when Thorin didn’t continue. To think he had actually been missing Thorin’s stunning conversational skills only a few moments ago! “Anyways,” Bilbo said, loosing his hands to swing them behind his back. “I did want to thank you for the deer meat. It’s…very kind of you. Really. But don’t feel it’s necessary --”

“I do feel it is necessary.” Thorin spoke more strongly than he had in the previous days, casting a steely-eyed gaze on Bilbo. “I will replace what I use, and more, in thanks for your hospitality.”

Bilbo stared at him, then dropped his head and stared at his toes as he rocked back and forth. Of course, Thorin had it all wrong. “You are my guest --” He began, looking back up.

Thorin jerked his head to the side sharply and cut him off. “An uninvited one.”

Bilbo snorted. “Well, that is no surprise, considering your last visit to Bag End.”

Thorin raised an eyebrow, inclining his head as if conceding the point. Bilbo got the feeling he did this often in discussions or negotiations, and spared a fleeting sympathy for those poor souls who had to labor under Thorin. 

“But.” Bilbo took a deep breath, considering for a long moment, and then laid out his truest thoughts, as he often seemed to do when Thorin’s doubts operated against him. “You are not an unwanted one, exactly, not -- not at all.”

This gave Thorin pause, he threw Bilbo a long, searching look, but whatever he saw in Bilbo’s face seemed to settle him. It softened the grim shape of his mouth, although his eyes still remained sharp and penetrating, as if he could peel apart Bilbo and lay bare every hidden hope that Bilbo tried to keep tucked carefully out of sight.

“So.” Bilbo cleared his throat, speaking firmly. “None of that now. A bit of hare or duck now and then might be a nice variety for dinner, but only if you feel you can’t spend a moment longer inside and have to stretch your legs for a little.”

Thorin tilted his head in a kind of acceptance, but Bilbo had the feeling he didn’t quite agree -- or that he’d do what he wished, one way or another. He opened his mouth to argue the point, and noticed the stain across the fur lining of Thorin’s coat.

“Oh --,” he said, stepping forward, hand rising.

Thorin looked down at the reddish, soiled spot and shrugged slightly. He seemed unconcerned at the sight of dried blood, or perhaps he thought it could be quickly cleaned off or replaced. Bilbo shuddered internally to think of how many poor seamstresses must remake his coats in a year.

“I can take it out, if you wish,” Bilbo said. “I think. Haven’t had to do it in awhile, now!” He helped Thorin shrug off his coat, taking it from his arms and peering closer at the thickened clots and clumps. “Most of it seems to be soaked into the fur, unfortunately. Still, I think I can manage it.” He nodded up at Thorin, whose face slowly relaxed further into the barest hint of a smile.

“If _you_ wish,” he replied.


	4. simmering and steaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Trouble.” Bilbo ground out around his pipe before snatching it out of his mouth. He held out a hand, curled his fingers into a fist, stretched them open again, and breathed heavily through his nose, sending a cloud of smoke into his face. Waving the smoke away, he blinked his eyes clear and glared. “Why yes, as a matter of fact, there is indeed some trouble!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks so much for reading!

Such an understanding, if one could even call it that, with so much implied and so little actually articulated, was bound to come to an end, especially if they had not yet actually spoken of Thorin’s position in Bag End, mostly because Thorin seemed keen on speaking as little as possible. Bilbo had not expected the ending to be such a sharp shock as the one he had the next morning, though. 

Bilbo pinched the fold between his eyebrows when he came upon the small river Thorin had left in the hallway. Following it to the bath, the stream became a lake, and the multitude of towels flung across the sink and floor did little to soak up the water but much to add to the mess.

“Thorin!” Bilbo called between his teeth, trying to keep his exasperation to a minimum but most likely failing in the endeavor. When nothing but a faint echo of his own voice answered him, he recalled that Thorin had disappeared directly after breakfast again, although Bilbo had managed to secure a vague promise to leave any unexpected surprises originating from nature in the outdoors, where they belonged, for the time being.

With a heavy sigh, Bilbo marched into the room, large feet squishing across the soaked rugs as he gathered up the wet towels and took them to the entrance hall. Then came another trip with the wet rugs, and a third to spread fresh towels around the bath to soak up what water remained. By the time Bilbo was outside with the washboard set up, he was simmering, and the call of his name jolted him out of his anger, although not entirely.

“Yes?” He pulled himself upright by gripping the wooden lip of the tub, not quite muffling a groan as his knees creaked.

“Got yer turnips and onions, sir.” A young hobbit, by name of Master Clayhanger stood in the lane with a bag cradled in each arm, waiting patiently for Bilbo to open the gate.

“Sorry?” At Clayhanger’s blank look Bilbo came to the fence. “I didn’t order either of those, I’m afraid.”

“Nothing to fear there, sir, they’ve been paid. By the, uh, dwarf, Mister Oakshield.”

“Oakenshield.” Bilbo corrected, and then sputtered. “ _What -- he -- that!_ \-- that is, never mind,” he said, flipping the latch on the gate and taking the bags from Clayhanger with a grunt so the lad could head on back down the hill. “Hold on a moment, I’ll have a coin for your troubles.”

The young hobbit shook his head, curly locks flying about his freckled face. “Took care of that, too, sir. G’day!” He called, already trotting off.

Bilbo watched him go and then took the bags to the house, lips pinching together to hold back his disrespectful mutterings. A pain, that was what Thorin was. The anger that had propelled him all morning was bubbling back into full boil, and it was only a matter of time --

A knock on the door sounded through the hall, and Bilbo stopped, wondering who it could be. He wasn’t expecting any -- he gave the turnips and onions a stare of dawning horror before he rushed to the front door. This was clearly the result of Thorin’s long, tarrying trip to the butcher’s yesterday!

“Good day to you!” Noakes’ smiling face and kindly wave did nothing to stall Bilbo’s rising frustration. By the time they had unloaded the boxes of fruit wine and trekked them into Bilbo’s cellar, along with two sets of footprints on the floor, only Bilbo’s well-ingrained manners kept the polite, albeit tight, smile on his face when he nodded farewell. The restraint came in handy when Missus Grubb came by with a basket of fruit, and Mister Malkin with several large sacks of grain in his wheelbarrow.

By the time Thorin stepped through the gate to Bag End that evening, Bilbo was steaming, knees sore from lifting and bending and kneeling most of the day and the entire front side of him still damp from cleaning the towels, rugs, and the floor of the front hallway down to the cellar and to the bath.

“Good eve,” Thorin said with a regal nod of his head, and then seemed to read some of the anger in Bilbo’s crossed arms, the quick puff of his pipe and the narrowness of his eyes.

“Is there some trouble?” He asked cautiously, eyes flickering around Bilbo before settling back on him.

“Trouble.” Bilbo ground out around his pipe before snatching it out of his mouth. He held out a hand, curled his fingers into a fist, stretched them open again, and breathed heavily through his nose, sending a cloud of smoke into his face. Waving the smoke away, he blinked his eyes clear and glared. “Why yes, as a matter of fact, there is indeed some trouble!”

Thorin waited a moment for him to continue, then spoke. “What is it?”

Bilbo gave him an aggravated look. “ _Firstly_ \-- no. Well, yes, alright, one thing at a time. How many folk are presently at Bag End?”

Thorin glanced at the round, green door and then back at Bilbo.

Bilbo showed him the precise number on his hand; a thumb and a forefinger pointed very deliberately to Thorin. “And so, how many of those folk must work keep this place clean?”

Thorin’s frown deepened.

“ _Because_ ,” Bilbo said, emphasizing the words with a jab of his pipe, “the floors, the bath, the rugs -- the kitchen, for that matter! -- do _not_ clean themselves.” He leaned back into the bench and drew a deep lungful of pipe-weed. 

Thorin opened his mouth.

Bilbo sat up again. “And! And what did we just speak of last night? That it is unnecessary to buy any foodstuffs! And only hunting on occasion! I am fully capable of providing for myself _and_ my -- my guests. Thank you for your concern, but I can do without it.”

Watching Thorin’s face transform from shock to anger would have frightened a different hobbit, but Bilbo had seen Thorin in the worst of all circumstances, so was not the least bit rattled when Thorin snarled.

“I am trying to be a good -- _guest_ ,” he bit out. “As I said, what I use I will replace. I intend to keep my word.” When Bilbo bristled, Thorin took one step closer and then stopped himself, hand visibly tightening on his belt.

“I asked you not to,” Bilbo said hotly, “and you still did! _Why_?”

Thorin held out a broad palm and then lowered it, clenching it into a frustrated fist. “Why can you not accept my -- recompenses for your hospitality?”

Bilbo’s eyes widened and he nearly lost his grip on his pipe. “Is that what this is? Compensation?” An idea of the reason behind Thorin’s coming to the Shire was unfurling in his mind, a terrible one that Bilbo did not even want to contemplate. “Restitution?” The last word came out shakily, and Bilbo cleared his throat awkwardly.

“No.” The look upon Bilbo’s face must have struck some chord in Thorin because he hurried on. “ _No_. That is not what I meant. I would never --” 

Here Thorin abruptly stopped, and for that Bilbo was grateful. He was certain he had heard the last of their dark exchange over the theft of the arkenstone, in the stilted words of regret afterward. He would gladly never speak of it again, had thought the matter firmly closed, and was glad to put it behind them, thinking -- hoping -- that someday they could resume their friendship.

But to hear any implication that Thorin had not changed from the same grim attitude of retribution he held against friends and enemies alike -- that he had come to the Shire solely to repay for his errors in some twisted fashion -- Bilbo felt heartsick.

Thorin continued after a fraught moment, gloom laced into the low growl of his voice. “Can you accept nothing from me?”

“Nothing of that kind,” Bilbo said stiffly, and turned away, intent on ignoring Thorin until he went away or Bilbo’s mood dissipated, whichever came first. The former seemed more likely than the latter.

Thorin was a dark shape out of the corner of his eye, as Bilbo continued his smoke, although not nearly as easily or pleasurably as normal, and eventually the dwarf took the steps up to the door, where he then paused, and Bilbo heard a deep sigh.

“I will heed your words, and endeavor to keep your hospitality,” Thorin said heavily, and Bilbo turned his head a little to see Thorin’s back was still towards him, even though his voice was pitched to be heard clearly.

“That -- yes -- but that is not what I _meant_ ,” Bilbo said, for the second time since Thorin had arrived, but still he found he could not voice exactly what he did mean. But it hardly mattered, for Thorin was already inside, the door closing firmly behind him.

It took some time before Bilbo remembered to finish the rest of his pipe, although it did little to soothe him, and he went to bed with a restless mind that did not lead him to respite. As had always been its habit when his thoughts dwelt on Thorin Oakenshield.

***

Bilbo slept in later than usual, exhausted from his busy yesterday and having taken quite a while to fall into slumber with his mind churning like a vat of cream turning to butter. When he woke, he lay curled in his sheets for even longer, letting the past events replay in his head, the dialogues between him and Thorin, and where he -- both of them, really -- had gone wrong. He eventually came to the tired conclusion that he must know what Thorin wanted, what he was here for, even if Thorin did not seem to want to speak of it himself.

Was it fair of him to ask, then? To demand that knowledge from Thorin, even if it brought up such a painful part of the past? Oh, how he wanted to believe the best of that dwarf! That he had indeed changed in the aftermath of the Battle of the Five Armies and the years since then! That his heart had softened, so even if it was still forged of iron, it had now been wrought into new form, and he chanced to forgive friends rather than hold onto bitterness forever, as dwarves would tend to do. Rolling over, Bilbo burrowed his head into his pillow and sighed wearily. Could he continue like this if he didn’t? With great effort, he pulled himself out of bed and shouldered into his robe, slumping for a moment as he gathered his mettle, before opening the door and slipping down the hall.

His first instinct was to go straight to the kitchen to start the kettle boiling, but a flicker in the shadows ahead of him led him straight past the kitchen to the parlour, where he stealthily peered in.

The light was low, the sun still on its ascent to its peak in the sky, but even without the light Bilbo would recognize the dark figure of Thorin staring out the window, hands clasped behind his back. Part of Bilbo sighed at having to deal with Thorin, for with him always came conflict and confrontation of a kind. But the rest of him was glad to see the dwarf still here, and not hiding away in his room or worse, leaving with no word or letter. There was a slant to his back that brought a faint memory of their journey to Erebor back to Bilbo’s mind, and although Bilbo could not see his face, he could recognize the curve of exhaustion and weariness, one that Thorin could hide better than most.

It gave Bilbo pause, and made his chest tighten most frightfully, and he leaned his cheek against the doorframe to steady himself. Whatever Thorin’s reason for barging into Bag End without notice or explanation, it was clearly a trying one.

It made the previous night’s argument a little clearer to Bilbo. If Thorin remained unchanged, then there would be no argument -- it would simply be done. That Thorin struggled and faltered said quite another thing, and Bilbo’s generous nature made him apt to give Thorin another chance at explaining his true purpose for coming all this way to the Shire. After watching for another stretch of several moments he turned away as quietly as he had entered and went to the kitchen, where he made sure to rattle the cupboard as he pulled two mugs from it.

Thorin said nothing when Bilbo brought his mug of tea to him, although he did nod in response to Bilbo’s brief greeting, and that was enough for Bilbo, for now.


	5. make no promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bench was small for just one hobbit, and cozy for two, and for a hobbit and an overdressed dwarf it was intimately snug. Bilbo scooted over until the wrought metal armrest pressed into his side, and still Thorin’s heavy coat flapped open over his knee, and his elbow pressed into Bilbo’s shoulder, unaccountably crowding into his space.

Bilbo’s half-formed resolve did not make him entirely forgiving of Thorin’s willful disregard towards Bilbo’s wishes, well-intentioned as the dwarf may be. Bilbo was still tired enough to be snappish, especially when Thorin came in and seated himself at the table without a word or offer of help. The knives and forks hit the table with a thump and the spatula scraped hard against the pan as he made the barest of breakfasts, robe fluttering up to reveal his striped pyjamas as he crossed the floor to slap the food onto the plates. 

A few times, it looked like Thorin was on the verge of speaking, but he held his counsel and resolutely ate his potato cakes as he and Bilbo exchanged looks, his somber and Bilbo’s varying between cross and compassionate. 

After quick wash-up Bilbo went about his day, Thorin conspicuously absent from the hallways and Bilbo’s sight, and he nearly skipped on second breakfast just out of peevishness, but his stomach rumbled loudly in protest. Later, an unintentional nap in his study helped lighten his mood, and he hummed to himself as he made another cup of tea and stretched out his back.

A cart rumbled past on the lane, and Bilbo froze in mid-stretch. He recalled the crowd of visitors he had reluctantly received the day before and hurried to the window, only to see with some relief that it was merely the post, come and gone. A closer look revealed they had thoughtlessly left the hatch open on his little mailbox, a parcel of letters sticking out of the end.

With a grumble Bilbo went outside to collect the post, and upon inspection he saw the reason for the unfastened hatch. There was no room to close it! He gathered the post in his arms and went back up the steps by rote, untying the bundle as he went, and managed to elbow the door shut with a little effort.

“Is that the post?” Thorin said from the hall, and Bilbo started a little, surprised that he hadn’t noticed Thorin’s approach. It was the first words they had exchanged today besides Bilbo’s earlier greeting, and the first Bilbo had seen of Thorin since breakfast, and he found himself momentarily tongue-tied. 

“Yes,” he muttered after a moment, juggling the multitude of letters that threatened to fall through his fingers. He really shouldn’t have untied the twine until he’d gotten through the door, but the sheer size of the bundle that had been packed into his mailbox had boggled him, and he had been intent on discovering why he could have possibly gotten so many. Perhaps they weren’t _all_ for him, and the cause of Bilbo’s current domestic woes was also the cause of his overflowing mailbox. “Did you give out my address for correspondence?” He asked Thorin, eyes narrowing accusingly.

Thorin made deep, dismissive sound. “Balin did, perhaps.” He came forward in time came to catch a few letters that slipped out of Bilbo’s arms, and his closeness was particularly unsettling to Bilbo, towering over and surrounding him. It made him fumble a bit, knuckles brushing Thorin’s palm until he could get the letters stacked into something of a pile.

“Well --” Bilbo huffed, agitated by the touch and aggravated that these decisions were made without any input from him, as always. “Baggins, Baggins, Baggins,” he recited under his breath. Louder, he said, “It looks like -- oh no, this one’s for you -- and the rest are -- Baggins yet again.”

Thorin deftly took the single letter addressed to his name, and left Bilbo to sort through the rest, which he did so in his study, dumping them into a heap onto his desk.

From the top of the pile Bilbo took one and peel open the seal of red wax. “ _Mr. Baggins, kindly keep your guest out of my garden_ \-- oh, dear.” Bilbo raised his head to look in exasperation in the general direction of Thorin, somewhere deep in the halls of his home, before taking a deep breath and diving in.

Letter after letter unfolded some kind of account about Thorin’s uncultured and wild ways, some more venomous than others, most completely unfounded -- near as Bilbo could tell, but he would have to ask Thorin later -- but most were worried about possible intrusions or pilfered garden lots. 

Bilbo sighed, dropping the latest letter -- not even the last of the pile -- and rubbed the small of his back, which had not quite recovered from yesterday’s activities and his spontaneous nap on this very same desk.

“Bother it all,” he muttered, and slumped into his chair.

***

If yesterday Bilbo’s temper had run hot, and this morning had cooled to lukewarm, by the end of the afternoon it had dropped considerably. Although he was vaguely irritated at the inconvenience of composing so many replies to his neighbors (a few of them apologetic but most of them quite stern) the absurdity of it made him all the more lenient towards Thorin.

He thought it a good plan to have another smoke to end his evening, as the one yesterday had been less than relaxing, so he shrugged on a jacket and sat himself outside, sighing audibly in relief as the bench seat creaked familiarly underneath him. He crossed his ankles together and lit the pipe, the pipe-weed catching the flame with a crisp, red smolder. 

Bilbo had managed to shape a few smoke rings, mostly for amusement (and to keep in good form for Gandalf’s next visit), when he heard the front door creak open. Thorin came around the open door with a pouch in his hand, and upon seeing Bilbo he halted abruptly, obviously not expecting Bilbo to be out on the porch.

Bilbo raised an eyebrow, and watched the deliberation going through Thorin’s mind. Then after a long moment -- three puffs on Bilbo’s pipe to be exact – he strode to the bench, and sat down next to Bilbo.

The bench was small for just one hobbit, and cozy for two, and for a hobbit and an overdressed dwarf it was intimately snug. Bilbo scooted over until the wrought metal armrest pressed into his side, and still Thorin’s heavy coat flapped open over his knee, and his elbow pressed into Bilbo’s shoulder, unaccountably crowding into his space.

Bilbo watched out of the corner of his eye as the dwarf pulled out his own pipe through his many layers of clothing -- why he wore so many during the warm season was a little worrisome, but it also reminded Bilbo of his promise to clean the blood out of Thorin’s greatcoat, which hung forgotten in the atrium -- and cradled it in one hand, as if studying it. It gave Bilbo time to notice how heavily used those hands were, thick with calluses and curved with scars, a few still pink and fresh. The same heavy rings bordered his middle fingers as the ones he had worn on their journey, and Bilbo thought only that he should be seeing new, bright ones, that in fact Thorin was wearing nothing that spoke of his beloved treasure under the mountain.

“Perhaps,” Thorin said, breaking the silence, and fell silent. 

Bilbo watched the internal struggle wage across the deep lines of his face and felt a touch sorry for the dwarf. For a short moment, until he thought of the cleaning up and the cooking and Thorin’s absolute refusal to listen to Bilbo’s appeals.

“If. If you gave me some -- duties,” Thorin said to his pipe.

“Duties,” Bilbo said, to make certain he had heard correctly.

“Yes.”

“Such as?”

Thorin’s boot tapped once against the ground and he made a flicking motion with his wrist. “…not providing any foodstuffs, clearly. Perhaps some degree of physical labor could be provided?”

Bilbo felt his eyebrows droop into a glower. Of course, Thorin _must_ be so prickly when offering help. He huffed and drew on his own pipe, and still Thorin waited. “Well,” Bilbo said, at a loss at how to proceed. One could hardly ask a guest to pitch in with household chores, but family, or an old friend, maybe -- but as they’d discovered, Thorin wasn’t quite any of those things. So, that left Bilbo to navigate the details of Thorin’s stay. His request was met easily enough, and it would perhaps take off the hard edge that lingered in Thorin’s manner.

Plus, there were a number of chores where height would come in handy. Bilbo hummed in agreement and lifted a shoulder thoughtfully. “Will a list be sufficient?”

Thorin nodded. “Or simply demonstrate the tasks you wish completely, and that way I can be certain to complete the duties properly.” He began to pack his pipe with leaf. 

Bilbo watched him press the leaves into the bowl, amused despite himself. It was the longest sentence Thorin may have said yet, and all because of some stubborn dwarvish sense of obligation. “I could draw you up a contract.”

Thorin seemed to seriously consider this before glancing at Bilbo. “If you believe that is necessary -- ah.”

Bilbo tilted his head, smiling. “The risk of incineration is quite low, but as to the state of your nose after cleaning the top shelves of the store room, I can make no promises.”

Thorin squinted at him, eyes crinkling at the corners before his mouth turned upwards slightly. The hint of a smile was gone within moments, and he continued. “I will not be a burden upon you.”

“You’re not!” Bilbo said quickly, and then looked down, speaking more quietly. “Even if you refuse to listen to me when I’m giving you sensible orders,” he added in a slightly exasperated tone. “You’re not. Even if you do not -- or cannot speak of your reasons for visiting, you aren’t a burden. You are always welcome in my home.”

Thorin’s lips tightened and then relaxed fraction by fraction as Bilbo spoke and he nodded. 

“And!” Bilbo raised a hand, dropping it to clasp his knee. “You are welcome to stay as long as you like.” 

Thorin’s thankful nod was slower this time, but that seemed to settle the matter for the time being. As they continued their smoke, they listened to the sounds of the evening, to the creatures settling in for the night and slowly the tension unwound and fell like a blanket from their shoulders.

“I will have to leave before autumn sets into winter, to make it over the Misty Mountains,” Thorin said suddenly, voice loud in the evening air.

Bilbo found himself nodding. “Ah.” Thorin’s blend of pipe-weed was tart in his nose, tangy and a little biting. “Will you journey back alone?”

Thorin shook his head, and exhaled another stream of smoke. “Balin and Ori will return to collect me, and we will take the roads together.”

Bilbo wondered if it would be appropriate to ask him where Balin and Ori were at this moment, but decided against it.

The remained sedately smoking together, Thorin a warm, solid presence against his side, a contrast against the cooling evening air. Bilbo startled when Thorin suddenly spoke again, deep voice breaking the silence.

“If I have not made myself clear previously. You are also always welcome in Erebor.”

“Yes,” Bilbo said slowly. “You informed me when I last took leave of the mountain.”

Thorin drew on his pipe and eventually slid a glance his way.

“I have not forgotten,” Bilbo said, because it was evident it was important to Thorin. “The others were quite zealous in their invitations as well.” Bilbo smiled at the memory, everyone without grave injury meeting him at the gate to bid him farewell. At a loss for words, Balin had spoken first, promising quite the feast upon their next meeting, and upon hearing that all the dwarves had promised the same, each trying to one-up the other in their exaggerations. Bilbo had felt the same tremendous swell of emotion, and gave into laughing, offering tea in return.

It reminded Bilbo of his manners. He had yet to ask after his friends! “Everyone is well?”

“Yes,” Thorin said, and went on to describe what he knew of the company. Bilbo was glad to hear an update -- he exchanged letters with Balin on occasion, but had grown lax in correspondence with the others.

“-- mining, and Bifur still crafts toys -- oddly grotesque, from what I hear -- and Bombur is perhaps a cook? I not certain,” Thorin admitted, hand splaying on his knee.

“Well, I’m sure you are busy with other things. I confess I am glad to hear only good news!” Bilbo said with a pleased smile. “Erebor must be thriving,” he said, a little softer, imagining the city built up once again. He had caught glimpses of its former greatness when he was there, but rubble and ruins still lingered foremost in his mind.

Thorin looked into the distance, where spots of light illuminated the other hobbit residences while the sky grew steadily darker. “Yes, I think so.” His voice was low, faint in rumination, but he did not sound particularly despondent. “It will never be what it once was.” 

“Perhaps that is good,” Bilbo ventured to say, and Thorin nodded slowly but did not reply.

Perhaps it will be better, Bilbo thought, watching Thorin’s face, but did not share his thoughts.

They remained outside for sometime, until it grew cold enough for Bilbo to shiver a little in his jacket. Thorin noticed and stood up, tucking his pipe away and reaching down to tug Bilbo up by the arm.

“Come,” he said unnecessarily, steering Bilbo inside. “It wouldn’t do to add taking care of a sick hobbit onto my list of duties.”

Bilbo snorted but went with him, not having much of a choice anyways, Thorin’s hand steadfast and warm on his bicep.


	6. as requested

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin held it in front of him gingerly, like it was an orc’s head or something equally vile, and Bilbo pressed his lips together as he struggled not to laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, hi there. Ao3's been playing tricks for the past day, but this really is an update. If you’ve stayed with me this long -- thank you! I hope you’re still enjoying these two stubborn fools. If you're new to the story -- thanks for reading! This is kind of a slow chapter, sorry. I mean -- slower than usual, ha.
> 
> A special thanks to heyerette for reminding me that there are people still waiting on the story! You’re a sweetheart. <3 On that note, here’s a pre-DB Thorin POV drabble, part [one](http://confaburation.tumblr.com/post/61809347725/this-goes-directly-before-the-other-db-extra) \+ [two](http://confaburation.tumblr.com/post/57751949777/domestic-blitz-extra-from-thorins-pov-for). No spoilers for DB, just Thorin being...Thorin.

“I’ve been considering what you said last night,” Bilbo said, when they were nearly finished with breakfast. They had left each other’s company on a light note last evening, a sort of truce unstated between them, and Bilbo almost regretted breaking it so quickly. However, he thought it best to take a proactive stance towards Thorin, to minimize any more misunderstandings before they arose again. And really, he was only doing as Thorin had requested, and therefore, the dwarf ought to not take any offence!

Thorin looked up as he sopped up the last of his gravy with his toast, finishing with a final, measured bite before sitting upright with a grave expression. It was rather disconcerting to have Thorin’s full attention, his pale blue eyes staring at Bilbo so intently, but Bilbo felt nearly used to the effect it had on him now. 

Bilbo continued onward quickly. “There are some guidelines I would appreciate you take heed of. No wandering about the neighborhood, unless you stay on the paths. No use in giving the rest of the poor hobbits grey hairs.” Bilbo said the last part under his breath and cleared his throat. “As for foodstuffs -- I think you have covered that many times over, now, but if, for some extraordinary reason we need more, we will go into the market together and split the costs equally. And, as I said -- a bit of game now and then would do no harm, but perhaps you had better let me know before you dash off on some fool’s errand.”

Thorin seemed dissatisfied with this, and looked as if he wanted to protest, but eventually, under Bilbo’s stern look, he relented and nodded in agreement.

“And now, you requested duties -- which, it bears repeating, are unnecessary, but if you insist, who am I to stop you! -- you can take care of the firewood. I’ll show you where the logs are stacked, and you can make sure the rooms are fully stocked and split the stumps when you feel the need to work off any more urges of generosity.”

Thorin seemed to find his choice of words amusing, one eyebrow rising slightly at Bilbo’s dry tone.

“And, you can start the fireplaces in the evening if you’re so inclined.” Bilbo finished. Thorin had done this on several occasions already, so it was a natural course of action to assign the duty to him. “Mind you, it’s still summer, so need to be heavy-handed. Though the evenings do cool off a bit,” he trailed off, thinking of the back rooms, which generally stayed colder than the rest, dug deep into the hill ground. That was obviously not a problem for Thorin, who seemed content to live in his greatcoat. Which still need cleaning, Bilbo reminded himself as he eyed the heavy long-sleeved shirt that Thorin was wearing, cuffed tightly at his wrists.

Bilbo drew his mind away from that thought and met Thorin’s gaze again. He waited again for Thorin to nod before continuing. “That being said, if you insist upon -- earning your stead, as you say, then there are a few tasks I could use another body for.”

Thorin seemed pleased to hear this. Why he was so keen on keeping things evenses between them, Bilbo could not comprehend, but he sorely hoped it was not because of what happened over the arkenstone. Thorin was -- the more he thought on the dwarf, the less certain Bilbo felt. And he did not like feeling so out of his element in his own home.

Well, if there was a thing Bilbo was good at, it was forging onward with no skill or particular knowledge about a situation, and blind luck (as well as generally excellent, talented friends) had gotten him there and home again (and relatively unscathed).

“That is all I have at the moment, except I ask you keep the place as tidy as I do. Which, granted, it _can_ be a bit messy,” especially with Bilbo’s family heirlooms and collected trinkets decorating every available surface, “but it _is_ clean. And I’d like it to stay that way.” 

Thorin had to only take a moment to consider this before speaking. “You mean picking up after myself.”

Bilbo nodded and made a face. “Well, yes, of course. You’re not too bad with that. I meant more…generally.” He looked meaningfully at Thorin’s empty plate in front of him.

Thorin frowned downwards, as if not recognizing what he was eating off of, and his eyes flicked behind Bilbo.

Bilbo knew he was looking at the sink and gave Thorin another pointed look. “Yes, that does mean occasionally doing the washing up every now and then.” He stood up with an arch grin, hands flat on the wooden tabletop. “As a matter of fact, how about we start now?”

Thorin, to no surprise on Bilbo’s part, bore down on his assigned task as if he could conquer all with his unbending will alone. Dishes were clearly an easy mission, and Thorin shrugged off his long jerkin before he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows with precise movements. Once that was done, he plunged his muscled forearms into the sudsy water and proceeded to scrub the finish off the dishware. Bilbo wiped down the rest of the kitchen before taking a place at Thorin’s side, picking up a clean dishtowel to wipe off the water.

When Thorin had finished the last dish, and Bilbo had dried it, he handed the damp dish towel to Thorin, and waited for him to slide the fabric down his hands and forearms before taking it back and hanging it up to dry.

“So,” he said uncertainly, clearing his throat.

“Do you have tasks for me now?” Thorin asked.

Straight to the point! Bilbo gave him a wry smile and nodded. “Give me a moment,” he said, and went to change into his day clothes, stopping in the doorway to turn and say, “Wait here!” before scuttling off. He had thought hard on what Thorin could help him with, and the most immediate of it boiled down to Thorin’s own doing: several bags of food needed to be dealt with before they went bad. The bags of grain would have to be taken to the miller’s to be turned to flour, the fruit wine would sit perfectly until needed -- although it would have to be drunk within the next year or two, and did Thorin not realize that one hobbit alone could not drink all that before it spoiled! -- and the turnips and onions could wait, too. The fresh fruit was the issue, and they would have to see to it very quickly.

But what they could make -- and what they would need to do it -- and all the related odds and ends crowded Bilbo’s mind as he dressed, in plainer clothes than usual, anticipating a busy and potentially messy day. These thoughts led Bilbo to his spare room, and then his study, and there he stood, scratching at his chin.

“Now, where did I put it...?”

***

Bilbo’s fingers quested along a row of haphazardly ordered books, lingering momentarily upon the spines of several that caught his interest, until finally he had found not a book at all, but a small, dusty box decorated with patterned paper that was peeling around the edges. With a pleased “Aha!” he plucked it from the shelf, releasing a tuft of dust and sneezing quite unexpectedly.

Rubbing his nose until he could breath easily again, he rotated the box until the little clasp was in front. The clasp popped open and the lid opened easily enough, even after all these years, and the cards were the same as they were the last time he had laid eyes upon them.

And when had that been? He wondered, but even casting through the cobwebbed past in his mind did not bring up an answer immediately, and already his hands were in motion, thumbing one of the cards free of its companions. Smudges added texture to the paper, and the corners were worn with use: it had been one of his mother’s favorites. Ink that had once been black had turned brown, but the scribbled words were familiar; enough that he felt his lips curl into a fond, sad smile. His mother’s handwriting had always looked rushed. She was more eager to _do_ than to _think_ , unlike his father, and her occupations had always been of a more practical rather than literary manner. Bilbo could even spot one or two cards with his young writing; eager to help, the letters were large and tremulous as if they weren’t used to being penned into such small spaces.

“What are you doing?” Thorin had snuck up on him while Bilbo was lost in his memories and was peering over his shoulder, and Bilbo had the fleeting impression of hot air fluttering against the nape of his neck before he had leapt around, clutching the box to his chest.

“I beg your _pardon_ \--” Actually Bilbo was too flustered and annoyed to do so, and he pressed onward in a pique. “Can you not do that, please?”

Thorin looked surprised at Bilbo’s tirade, taking one long measured blink before he responded, amused. “I did say your name.” 

“Oh.” Bilbo’s irritated outburst died upon his lips, especially as he recalled right at that moment that he had left Thorin standing the kitchen. Er.

Thorin didn’t seem bothered by Bilbo’s neglect, though his arms folded across his chest as he stared down at him. “You were occupied.” Thorin nodded at the box. “What is it?”

“My mother’s -- ” Bilbo started to say, and then stopped. The words spoken aloud, combined with his earlier musings, made it all the more real that she was gone. And yet, more than ever, he wished she were there to give him advice on how to deal with willful dwarves, and he smiled ruefully. He would have never _wanted_ advice back when he really needed it. 

“Recipe box!” He continued, forcing a note of brightness in his voice. “Just what we’ll need for today. And tomorrow. And possibly a few more days after that.” He moved around Thorin and headed to the kitchen, assuming Thorin would follow.

He did.

Between the two of them, they hauled out the several baskets of fruit from the pantry and placed them on the table in the kitchen. Since they were not quite at the height of midsummer, there was only a few berries in season so far -- raspberries, of course, and strawberries, and some early, smallish blueberries. Ripe enough, Bilbo thought, popping one into his mouth. He frowned slightly at the tart taste. 

“Cooking?” Thorin asked, although the words were less a question and much more flat in intonation, as if cooking were along the lines of an imprisonment or an exile. Both of which Thorin had experienced, so _really_ , Bilbo thought, no need to be so dramatic.

“You’ll have no one to blame but yourself,” Bilbo said meaningfully as he pulled one of his aprons from the hook and tied it about his waist. He selected another off the rack and handed it to Thorin.

Thorin took it from his hand with a glare and held it in front of him gingerly, like it was an orc’s head or something equally vile, and Bilbo pressed his lips together as he struggled not to laugh.

“Well?” He asked, with as much blank innocence in his voice as he could manage. Thorin pulled the apron around his waist with a slightly cross look directed towards Bilbo.

“Well?” He mimicked with an impatient gesture, when Bilbo lingered too long in his stares -- for how could he help it, when Thorin, the great king and reclaimer of Erebor was wearing a white, gaily decorated apron in Bilbo’s kitchen?

Bilbo turned back to the cooker to compose himself, fighting down the grin that threatened to take over. He distracted himself by flicking through the cards in his mother’s recipe box. “I thought we’d start with jam. The fruit you bought won’t keep -- the turnips and onions will last for a bit, until I figure out what to do with them.” Bilbo rather hoped he’d find some inventive recipes in the wealth of his mother’s knowledge, or else they’d be eating turnip and onion-flavoured everything.

“A blueberry scone would a treat, wouldn’t it?” Bilbo was thinking aloud as he skimmed through the cards, pulling out the ones that seemed appetizing. “We’ll have to dry a lot of them, or bottle them. Perhaps syrup? Or brandied! That’d be lovely for later. What else can we make? …oh, a tart!”

“Scones.”

“Scones, yes, you’ve had them? Or a paste. Could make a wine but we have so --”

“I like them.”

Thorin’s interruption pulled Bilbo out of his ramble, but it was the words that had his mouth almost dropping open and head turning towards Thorin in shock -- Thorin, actually _volunteering_ information? Fortunately he managed to halt the gesture at the last movement. Best not to scare the dwarf off. “Good, because you’ll be making them,” he replied, turning to the next card, and he didn’t even have to look to know the dwarf was surely scowling.

“Ah, here it is.” Bilbo pulled out the recipe for strawberry jam, and turned to Thorin. “Let’s get started, shall we?”


	7. the grand scheme of things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I have not the patience,” he admitted reluctantly, for admitting fault had never been a strong point of Thorin’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized as I was writing this chapter that I completely forgot about the Ring. *facepalms* It will not play a part in this story, really, but it’ll be mentioned occasionally. At least it will _now_. *long exasperated sigh*

Bilbo liked to think himself a decent wordsmith; perhaps not the most elegant of authors nor the most compelling, but he _had_ composed a song or two in his time, and they had been received by their audience with no small degree of pleasure (though ale might have aided him there). Now, he was hard pressed to find a single complimentary word to describe Thorin’s ability at taking direction. 

The dwarf possessed an abundance of confidence, even though, Bilbo knew, he had no earthly idea what he was doing. Still, he continued on doggedly. A skill gained, Bilbo supposed, by his long years on the road and in the wild. If baking (and its kindred culinary forms such as cooking) were learned by the strength of will alone, Thorin’s would be enough to crown him, er, king.

“Er…” Bilbo echoed his thoughts as he watched Thorin hack the hulls of the strawberries off with vehemence, racing through the pile until there were none left to cut, leaving the little green tops scattered limply on the counter. Thorin turned his head sharply, staring at Bilbo as if daring him to say something negative. 

“Excellent!” Bilbo managed to say, because somewhere, at some point in time, he’d read that praise was an important component of teaching. And maybe it was, because Thorin accepted the compliment with a nod and stood back with a satisfied look on his face. 

Not that he was teaching Thorin, exactly -- it wasn’t as if the dwarf was going to be making jam back in Erebor! But Thorin had wanted duties and there were few enough to be found in this hobbit-hole, so there they were. 

Bilbo swept up the chopped strawberries and placed them in the heavy saucepan that was already filled with a small bit of lemon juice, which Bilbo had squeezed out while Thorin had prepared the strawberries. He set Thorin to trimming some decorative muslin to cover the jars with later, figuring Thorin’s expertise with blades would make him more willing -- and patient -- to do this part.

This left Bilbo waiting for the strawberries to heat, and when they were ready he added the sugar and stirred gently until they had dissolved into the softened red pulp. Bilbo turned the heat higher and handed the spoon to Thorin, who by this time had finished his part and had come to lean over his shoulder.

“Stir.” Bilbo gave this simple order and then wandered a very short ways away to drink his neglected tea.

Thorin was watching him even as he stirred, spoon scraping roughly around the pan. Bilbo waved a hand at him as if to say ‘pay attention’ and Thorin looked down at what he was doing.

“How long must I do this?”

Bilbo noted the impatience and countered with a shrug. “Is it boiling?”

Thorin didn’t respond for a few minutes, until he finally answered with a brief, “Yes.”

Bilbo had quite finished his tea by then and went to see for himself. It was indeed boiling, and looked gratifyingly thick. The scent was also delightful, sweet and mouthwatering -- there was nothing like a good jam! -- and Bilbo took a moment to sniff it appreciatively. “Mmm. See the little, er, frothy bits?” Bilbo meant the foamy white scum, for lack of a better word, that had risen as the strawberries turned to mush.

Thorin nodded, poking at it with his spoon.

“Scoop them off. We don’t want to bottle that part.”

“Why?”

“Why? Ah…” Bilbo cast around for that pertinent bit of information in his mind, but came up blank. “It doesn’t look so appealing when it’s in the bottle?” He said uncertainly, and Thorin frowned at him. “You just _do_ ,” he added pointedly. 

Thorin gave him a look that spoke volumes.

“If you don’t want to be here --”

“I didn’t say that,” Thorin retorted, and it was all Bilbo could do not to roll his eyes.

Thorin’s frown deepened and he turned his attention back to the pan and started scooping out the foam.

Bilbo knew exactly what he was thinking. “Oh, as if _you’d_ ever own to not knowing everything,” he muttered, and went away to the other opening of the cooker, where he went about extracting the empty jars, which had been given thorough scrubbing earlier and then heated in preparation for the jam. When he turned back, Thorin was studying him with a narrow look, as if he wasn’t _quite_ certain of what Bilbo had said, but had an inkling.

Bilbo tactfully choose not to engage him -- they could bicker all day, and jam was much more important, after all, in the grand scheme of things -- and showed Thorin how to check for its readiness.

They studied several dripping spoonfuls, and at each successive try Thorin wore a more disturbed frown on his face.

“What?” Bilbo said, trying not to sound defensive, but suspecting that he was failing.

“This doesn’t seem very precise,” Thorin said.

“Well, how do you know if a pile of gold is melted enough?”

Thorin stared at him. “It becomes liquid.”

“Perhaps that’s a bad example. Ah…” Bilbo scrunched his face in thought, but his knowledge of smithing was pathetically thin. “It’s a bit like when you’re piecing two forms together! Don’t you have to, er, have them at the same temperature? No? Oh. Well, when crafting a horseshoe, the farrier old Mister Brown used to say…what _did_ he say? He was always deep in the cups at the alehouse by that time…oh, bother.”

Thorin made a thoughtful rumbling sound and said, “I think I understand.”

“You do?” Bilbo said, surprised Thorin could comprehend anything about cooking beyond eating.

“Sometimes,” he said, turning to look at Bilbo, “you just know in your bones when something is complete. It isn’t a stage or a step in the process or some measurement of temperature -- just a trust in the material, and in your own hands.” 

Bilbo found himself nodding along in agreement slowly, entranced by Thorin’s words, more expressively delivered then he’d thought possible of Thorin. He’d forgotten how compelling the dwarven king could be when speaking -- probably because he’d hardly said a word since arriving at Bag End!

“Especially if you have been crafting for a long time, and experience has taught you mastery in the ways of iron and forge. Or kitchen,” Thorin added musingly.

“Oh!” Bilbo nearly blushed, surprised again by Thorin. “I’d hardly say I was a master, but…thank you. You’ll get it,” he said impulsively, indicating the spoonful of soon to be jam and smiled when Thorin snorted.

“I have not the patience,” he admitted reluctantly, for admitting fault had never been a strong point of Thorin’s.

“The kitchen is the best place to learn that,” Bilbo said.

***

Once the jam had been declared to have the qualities necessary to constitute it as jam, and allowed to cool, Thorin helped Bilbo carry the saucepan over to the jars Bilbo had set up on the table and they filled as many as they could, ending up with a good amount and a solitary half-full one that Bilbo thought they could eat now, as a reward for their efforts.

To escape from the heat of the kitchen, he packed them a light luncheon and met Thorin outside, looking up at the midday sun that was already bent on its curve towards the other side of the horizon. Bilbo’s front door faced southerly, and was rarely in shade, which was quite good for the flowers and plants but sometimes less so for hobbits and dwarves seeking relief from the heat.

Bilbo dashed back in to get a blanket, and then led Thorin towards a little spot on his property that was the home of a small, proud tree, and under its shade they put down the blanket and made themselves quite comfortable.

Thorin enjoyed their success, spread out on a roll, if the way he demolished the bag of rolls and the (only half full to begin with) jar of jam. Bilbo ate his share before it could be eaten, and then they helped themselves to some cheese and sausage, and finished a jar of pickled onions that Bilbo had the sense to bring with them.

Bilbo laid back, hands folded contentedly over his stomach, and closed his eyes. Besides the hot weather -- rather early for the summer -- he was pleased with how their morning had gone. Thorin had been prickly, but no more than usual, and surely even he was happy with his contributions to the domestic sphere of Bilbo’s household.

Bilbo yawned, feeling sleepy. He could not resist a nap in this heat, if ever. “Hot,” he commented without opening his eyes, and heard Thorin grunt with agreement.

“It’s supposed to a fever summer,” Thorin said, and Bilbo blinked one eye open.

“Fever?” He was curious about the phrasing, but Thorin misinterpreted him.

“Oin read the portents. It was to be an unusually hot summer in Erebor, and likewise in the Shire.”

Bilbo opened both eyes, his interest hooked. “You believe that?” When Thorin met his eyes, he continued. “I did not think you put much faith in those things.” Besides the quest to Erebor, but perhaps Bilbo had missed much beyond that. Bilbo hardly thought of such things, really, instead placing his faith in the wheel of the seasons and the plain and modest workings of the Shire, although his travels had certainly expanded his perspective and allowed him to consider ambitions beyond his own were probably at work. Those portents and omens hardly bore thinking about, though, and they certainly had no connection with him!

(The ring sat safely in its hiding spot, gold and gleaming as always.)

“Oin has some skill,” Thorin said stiffly.

“And you…believe him?”

Thorin hesitated. “He is not always wrong.”

“Then not always right, by your wording.”

Thorin scowled at him. “It is wise to consider _all_ advice, and information should always be examined thoroughly, whether it be rumours whispered in the dark or signs only seen by those with keener eyes than mine.”

Bilbo settled for nodding his head slowly in response. Perhaps this was another indication that Thorin had changed, in considering things he might not have paid attention to or willfully ignored before. 

“Did you always have these readings with portents?”

Thorin shrugged, and Bilbo deduced that was a ‘yes,’ and that he would not get any details about pre-Smaug days out of him.

Bilbo thought idly for a bit, fingers drumming against the buttons on his waistcoat. “What else did they say, these portents?”

Thorin may have went still beside him. It was hard to tell, in the weight of his heavy jerkin and long sleeves, but it seemed only the hair on his head that stirred in the air around them.

“Did they speak of red tidings of jam?” Bilbo said lowly, as if they were speaking of ill omens. “Or squalls of hot air from the cooker, preceding the advantageous arrival of baked goods?”

Thorin cast him a flat look and shook his head. It was obvious Thorin did not think him amusing, but Bilbo could not help teasing the unyielding dwarf, for he suspected Thorin did not like to be teased and that alone made Bilbo want to do it all the more.

“What about dealings with hobbits? Fair or foul, did they declare? Are you the prisoner of their ilk or the hero, here to slay the beast of boredom that rears it head?” Bilbo sat up on one elbow, but Thorin would not meet his eyes, and in fact, it looked like his cheeks had gone a bit ruddy.

Success! Bilbo tried to peer closer and finally Thorin snapped tetchily, “They said nothing ill!”

“Oh!” Bilbo hid a laugh behind his hand, and sat back, leaving Thorin be. The dwarf shook himself with an aggravated sigh.

“So it’s good that you’re here, then.” Bilbo mused unthinkingly, eying the dappled clouds that floated over their heads. 

Only to notice Thorin giving him a pained look out of the corner of his eye. “Er, that is to say...”

“Leave it be.” With this the dwarf laid down so his back was to Bilbo, his shoulder forming a rugged, uninviting peak.

Bilbo could not quite dispel his disappointed sigh -- in himself, for he had gotten a reaction out of Thorin and it was exactly as he should have suspected. It escaped his lips as a small puff, the only bit of moving air in the thick heat that settled over their reclining forms.


	8. to be lit ablaze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was Thorin’s turn to look vaguely squirmy. “I said I would help you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Folks, I am so so sorry for the delay in posting. I hope an extra-long chapter makes up for it a little bit. 
> 
> (Truthfully I'm not too fond of this chapter, buuuuut I want to continue on and not spend months dithering about like Bilbo and Thorin, so. Onward!)

They were facing another hot day with the oven stoked into eager flames and the cooker lit to warm the canning pot. Bilbo was feeling perhaps _slightly_ less grim than Thorin looked, but truthfully he was fraying a bit at the seams. He pushed a sweaty lock of hair from his forehead with his wrist, his hand occupied with a spoon, and peered over Thorin’s shoulder, checking on his progress. 

Bilbo was working on a raspberry sauce while Thorin made strawberry scones, and he was feeling the pace of the two as he raced back and forth between his place at the cooker and Thorin’s at the table. 

“Don’t knead so hard, you don’t want to overwork the flour.”

Thorin’s hands paused and then resumed their motion with infinitesimal slowness.

“But that would take you forever to do, so _slightly_ faster.” 

Thorin’s hands increased their pace while his shoulders hunched in an even swifter motion. He seemed quieter after yesterday, but then again, nothing in his manner had seemed to invite questioning to begin with. Whatever reason he had left Erebor for still plagued him. So, Bilbo could forgive his attitude problem and put up with him for a time, and perhaps when Thorin relaxed, he would be more forthcoming with details. 

Something in Bilbo’s manner perhaps frustrated Thorin too, for he took to scowling when Bilbo started scolding, rather like an impertinent tween. 

He seemed tense -- though that could be due to his current location, the kitchen -- and he was following the orders Bilbo gave competently, if not with grace. Bilbo supposed the dwarf could not claim the title of the most patient of pupils, but at least he was committed to his studies. Or duties, what have you. 

“Right, as you go, you’ll get the feel for it. Carry on.” Bilbo nodded sagely and bustled back to mind his own dish. Getting the seeds out was a tricky enough business without having to check on Thorin at the same time. Why he had thought making both dishes at once was a good idea, but after breakfast Thorin had squared his shoulders and looked imperiously at him. Other generous souls might have labeled the look as _expectant_ , but Bilbo knew what it was -- like Thorin was steeling himself for _battle_ \-- and Bilbo had very nearly rolled his eyes. _Why not_ , he thought. 

(Maybe he hadn’t been feeling _so_ forgiving, after all.) 

A layabout dishcloth served to wipe the back of his neck free of sweat, cleanliness be damned. This heat -- fever summer, he thought ruefully -- would sap the energy right out of him. He’d only be good for naps and cold lemonade. Maybe he could get back to his book -- 

“Now what?” Thorin called him back over to the table. 

“Form that into a disk and flatten it. Yes, like that. Now cut it into wedges and add a dash of sugar.” Bilbo watched Thorin follow his instructions, shaping the dough into a near perfect circle before slicing it into blocky wedges. 

“Now into the cooker and then a few minutes to bake up, and we’ll be having scones with our tea.” 

Thorin nodded, and before he could do more than turn his heel Bilbo reminded him, “You’ll have to check on them, so don’t go far.”

Thorin gave him a look that suggested he wasn’t born yesterday, and long before Bilbo at that, and after depositing the scones in the cooker he went only as far as to sit on the far side of the table. Bilbo decided to pay him no mind and went off to attend to his own sauce, soon losing himself in the careful extraction of the tiny black seeds from mash that was nearly the same color. 

As consuming as his actions were, he fancied he could feel a current of watchful air prickle across his shoulders. While usually Thorin’s looks could bore holes through stone, this one was much less piercing, perhaps meant to have gone unnoticed. Yet as it was becoming all too clear, Bilbo tended towards being hyper attentive when Thorin was near. 

When Bilbo finally gave up pretending his heart (nearly as demanding as Thorin was) hadn’t sped up a little at the attention, throbbing low and heavy in his chest, he glanced over. Thorin was as casual as he might ever be, ankles crossed and elbow bent on the table to prop his cheek up with his knuckles. The tension in his shoulders had receded, although his eyes were dark with some appraising intent. 

“A coin for your thoughts?” Bilbo quipped, to break the silence, and Thorin blinked, his eyes softening and the lines around his mouth losing their severity. “I might even be able to dig up a gold one, if you can make it worth my time.” Bilbo smiled to himself, turning his attention back to the sauce, mindful to keep the bottom from burning. 

“Do you still have it?” 

“What?” 

“The mithril shirt.” 

Thorin’s topic of conversation was so unexpected that Bilbo stopped mid-stir. “Sorry?” 

Thorin merely stared at him. Bilbo recognized the impatience beginning to build and hurried to stave it. 

“Um. Well, I have it, but not here, exactly. I leant it to the Mathom-house at Michel Delving. It’s quite a charming piece of history for the Shire, you know. Though I rather think they don’t realize what it’s for, it could be a nice sporting jacket for all they know. There’s few enough that recall the old times when hobbits once fought Orcs. The Breelanders might, now that I think of it. They see folk of similar ilk frequently enough, I’d suppose.” 

Thorin had looked ready to be lit ablaze at this, but only muttered, “ _Charming_?” once Bilbo had finished his aside. As if he had never heard the word. Undoubtedly it had never been applied to _him_. 

“Fascinating, brilliant, strange.” Bilbo waved the spoon to illustrate his point. “Take your pick.” 

“You can’t --” Thorin shook himself, and turned away, muttering, hand sweeping over his mouth to catch his words. They were too garbled to be understood, so Bilbo merely frowned. 

“Something the matter?” 

“Not at all.” Thorin nearly barked, and Bilbo blinked at the outburst. Thorin shook his head, his fingers running over his mouth, the other hand tightening around his thigh, a forcible measure to keep him from losing his temper, but Bilbo did not know that particular tell yet. (At least not the history; Thorin had done it many times as a youth, to keep himself from saying things better yet unsaid, but after Smaug took the mountain his anger had fueled him, not stricken him, and he’d not done it in some time. He hadn’t had councils that dealt with _Elves_ in a long while, either.) He was distracted, anyways, by Thorin’s fingers, the bluntness of the tips and the cracked fingernails from sword and smithy tracing the curve of his thin lips, and quite forgot what they were talking about. 

Then Thorin jerked upright, neck twisting and nostrils flaring, and he launched himself from the table straight towards the cooker. 

Bilbo watched him with his mouth agape. Then the reason for Thorin’s rapid movement appeared in the form of a black furl of smoke and a thick, charred scent as he opened the door to pull out the scones.

“Oh!” Bilbo breathed, for he had meant to keep track of the timing and had utterly let himself get distracted. He hurried over to see the damage. 

Thorin pried one up from the tray, and it came free with a pop. Bilbo winced. “They’re burnt,” Thorin said in disgust, staring at the scorched bottom, and dropped the scone back onto the tray. 

“Well --” 

“What a waste,” the dwarf said darkly, slamming the door shut with a rattle. Bilbo looked at him in surprise as he stood to presumably stalk out of the room. 

“Wait, this is -- ” _exactly the opportunity you need to learn_ , Bilbo nearly said. “What was your mistake?” 

“Walking into the kitchen,” the king snapped darkly, and Bilbo bit his bottom lip to keep from snorting with laughter. Tempting as it was to tease the king, he knew from experience (just yesterday, in fact) that Thorin was a mite bit sensitive. Heavens, but it was difficult, and the more Bilbo tried not to smile the funnier it became. 

Thorin finally noticed the length of Bilbo’s silence. He glanced over, gave a little sigh, and broke into a small, sheepish smile. Bilbo took that as an okay to laugh, and he did so heartily.

“Sorry, sorry,” Bilbo said, clutching at his stomach as he calmed down. Thorin tilted his head in acceptance of his apology, and Bilbo pulled himself back together. He picked up a scone (carefully, as they were still hot from the pan) and nibbled on it. Avoiding the burnt bottom and rather brown top, he aimed for the inside, and thought that they would have been edible, maybe even leaning towards good, if they’d turned out. 

Thorin was watching him. “Try,” Bilbo insisted, and Thorin took the scone from him and ate the top off. It crunched between his teeth, and Thorin frowned. 

“Still a waste,” Thorin said as he dropped what was left on the pan, with only a hint of self-censure this time. 

“Well,” Bilbo said, “They wouldn’t have been _bad_ ,” he said in what he hoped was a reassuring tone. “Maybe a touch dry, which was probably my fault anyways.” He shrugged while Thorin looked at him. He knew he was at fault for trying to do too much, and not keeping track of the time and of his pupil, but to have Thorin accuse him (if only with narrowed, penetrating eyes) made him self conscious and squirmy under the reproach. “I thought you wanted to learn! And this is the best way to --” Bilbo twisted his head sharply to look at Thorin. “You _do_ want to -- you _don’t_!” 

It was Thorin’s turn to look vaguely squirmy. “I said I would help you.” 

Bilbo sighed in exasperation. “Thorin, I could find you ten other things to do instead of baking! Really, this ‘labor as payment’ approach must stop. Or trying to keep things evenses between us! You know what I mean.” Bilbo put his hands on his hips, but one immediately went to his forehead and rubbed it woefully. It felt like the beginnings of another Thorin-inspired headache. “It is foolish and just, well, plain _rubbish_.” 

Thorin’s jaw had started working at the payment bit and Bilbo wondered if he had gone too far, except finally Thorin looked away, jaw still pulsing.

“It is -- I.” Thorin’s lips flattened, but he wasn’t on the verge of leaving, yet. 

Bilbo found himself tilting forward, to hear Thorin better. 

“I wanted --” 

The abrupt _belch_ of the raspberry sauce bubbling over the edge of the pot made Bilbo leap upwards, heart racing, and then yelp in horror as the black-red mess dripped off the lip of the pot and onto flames below, making the fire squelch and emit smoke. 

“It’s burning!” Bilbo said dumbly, running first to the pot and then back for the dishtowels, dithering as he tried to figure out a way to save the sauce. He turned around, dishtowels in both hands, prepared to grab the handles of the pot. Only Thorin was there already, moving the pot to another unlit burner and slotting the open burner closed with a deft movement. 

He stood back, and Bilbo watched his hands flex open and close. 

“Oh --” Bilbo moved forward, certain Thorin was hurt, but the dwarf was already brushing past him to the dining room. 

“Open the windows,” Thorin said as he did the same in the kitchen, unclipping the locks and pushed until the frame swung outward. Wafts of smoke that gone previously unnoticed seeped out. 

“But your hands,” Bilbo said, following the dwarf to the doorway. 

Thorin didn’t bother to respond as he pushed past Bilbo towards the parlour. Bilbo followed, and after Thorin had swung the window wide to let out the smoke, Bilbo was standing behind him in his path. 

“Let me see,” Bilbo said stubbornly, and Thorin looked about ready to refuse before Bilbo’s scowl deepened alarmingly and he sensibly changed his mind. With an arched eyebrow he held out his hands. 

Bilbo reached out to cradle those large hands and realized he was still holding a dishcloth in his own. He made an awkward sound in his throat and followed through with his movement anyways, sweeping Thorin’s hands up into mismatched and well-used dishcloths.

The sleeves of Thorin’s jerkin looped around his thumb, but that was hardly enough to keep the metal handles from singeing skin. But of course, Thorin’s palms were unblemished, except by calluses left by swordwork and scars left by heavens knows what. Or _who_. A particularly conspicuous one cut through his lifeline on his left hand, and Bilbo shuddered to think of how it got there.

“What’s a little fire after a dragon,” Thorin said, and Bilbo looked up in astonishment. Thorin held his eye while the corner of his lip tugged upward.

“I do believe you made a joke,” Bilbo said. 

Thorin’s small smile slowly faded. “I am not entirely humorless.” 

Bilbo heaved a breath. Thorin was always apt to find fault firstly, so Bilbo went another route. He had a lot to learn too, admittedly. It wasn’t just Thorin failing making scones, but Bilbo was -- _failing_ seemed like such a strong word. Reacquainting himself with Thorin seemed much better. Bilbo wetted his lips, gathering his wit. “I assumed -- there were some things you would never jest of.” 

Thorin conceded this. “I did the same of you, once, but now I know better than to presume anything.” 

Bilbo had to smile at the rather backwards compliment. “Well,” he started, then paused, head cocking. “What do you mean?” 

Thorin had been patiently standing in Bilbo’s care, but now he froze, eyes tracking across Bilbo’s face as if he searching for something. His nostrils flared with the sharp rise of his chest, and there was a vague look of puzzlement, and a hint of unease.

There was a large faction in this world, Bilbo had gathered, that thought Thorin carven from stone, deep droughts filled only by gold and his fierce claim on Erebor. Bilbo had more familiarity with him than most, and he knew there were layers to Thorin, strata upon strata that marked time and deep, unshakeable foundations.

Bilbo had etched his striking profile into memory and revisited it at every turn, until he could recognize the subtle and swift shifts of mood. And he saw something then -- something he’d seen maybe only twice in his life -- uncertainty. 

“Thorin?” Bilbo’s voice sounded hushed in the room, as if the light filtering through the window dispersed not just tendrils of smoke but the notes of his voice. 

Thorin shook his head then, and the crooked smile was returned to his face. “It is no matter,” he said, though his voice held hesitancy that hadn’t been there before. “You should check on your sauce.” Gently he removed his hands from Bilbo’s grip. When he left the room he walked past Bilbo at a measured pace, slowly, so that Bilbo could reach out and catch him if necessary. 

Bilbo did not, though he turned to watch Thorin’s silhouette disappear. The wheels in his head churned. The dishcloths dangled from his hands. He wondered, then, at Thorin’s abruptness, his sharp descents into irritability at some unfortunate turn of phrase of Bilbo’s, of his stubbornness to repay or pay or provide, of his hanging around in doorways and looming over Bilbo at odd times, his halting gestures and careful distances.

Thorin was…lost. As lost as Bilbo was. And here Bilbo was, laboring under the assumption that Thorin had all the advantages, but apparently this wasn’t _true_.

Bilbo was astonished for a second time in such a short while.


	9. A bit of tedious work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of tedious work to clear his mind, coupled with fresh air and the heat of the sun on his shoulders -- he felt as if he could take on the world. Wel, perhaps just the Shire. Or a rather tight-lipped dwarf, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Er....this has been quite a long time coming, I know. I'm not particularly confident about the quality of my writing at the moment, but I really want to move forward with the story. So...if you're still hanging around, thank you!

After  _that_ particular revelation, Bilbo would have assumed another sleepless night was to follow, and was surprised to find some hours had passed when he next opened his eyes. His clock was obscured in the darkness, but Bilbo fathomed it to be before daybreak. Too early in the morning for a sensible hobbit. Shutting his eyes did no good, and neither did staring up at the dark ceiling.

He got up to make some tea, creeping soundlessly through the hallways to keep from disturbing Thorin, but by the sounds of it Thorin had no problem sleeping. He did not snore, not quite, but it was a close thing. Bilbo could hear his deep inhalations and whistling sighs from the middle of the hallway. He crept on, fixed himself some tea, and decided not to sit by the coals in the parlour. He went back to his room and put another log in the fireplace across from his bed, and sat with his mug warming his hand and the fire warming his feet.

He thought of other things for awhile, because he needed to; letters that needed answering, payment that he should send down to Hamfast for the garden, and if he ought to risk going to market after Thorin’s wanderings. No, no good -- there the dwarf was again. Once more Bilbo dredged his mind away, and considered the weather -- a fever summer and, whether he might take a holiday later in the year, when it had cooled down and after Thorin had gone --

Drat.

He eventually drifted into a doze, head pillowed uncomfortably on his chest, and woke up with the tips of his ears and nose chilly in the dawn air. He stretched, and ambled out to the kitchen, wondering if Thorin was up.

But there he was, awake before Bilbo, and if Bilbo had not heard him snoring he would have wondered if Thorin did not sleep at all.

“Morning,” Thorin said gruffly. He was paging carefully through one of Bilbo’s old books, seated in Bilbo’s yellow chair with his feet kicked up on a stool. The fireplace was stoked, the room warm, and a mug of tea sat on the side table next to Thorin. The morning sun beckoned through the window, illuminating the flowers on the windowsill and the sooty marks on the wall left by candles, and the pile of books Thorin had picked through and left scattered.

It was cozy. Thorin did not even look out of place, not with hair that was sticking up defiantly around the crown of his head. Bilbo wanted to smooth it down, if only he could have convinced his feet to move. He must have stood there in silence for too long, rubbing at his eyes, but the queer feeling of how _natural_ this seemed did not leave him, not even when he kneaded his chest and pulled his robe tighter around himself. A tiny rustle, the sound of paper scraping against paper, made him blink dazedly at Thorin. The dwarf was looking at him as he turned a page, not paying a bit of attention to what he held in his hand.

“Kettle’s still hot,” Thorin said, almost gently, knowing a little of Bilbo’s habits, quite a lot more than he previously had, and Bilbo managed a smile as went to the kitchen and helped himself.

Bilbo came back and sat heavily in the rocking chair by the window, squirming around on the cushion until he was comfortable, and sighed. Audibly enough for Thorin to turn his head slightly, but his eyes did not stray from his book this time. Bilbo sipped his tea and idly wondered if he could fall back asleep, a nice, restful slumber, one could hope, if not for Thorin’s prickly presence keeping him from sliding into sleep.

Thorin…Bilbo looked sharply at the dwarf. That was the problem!

Thorin tilted the book in his hand towards Bilbo. “The pages had already fallen out.”

“No, no -- that’s fine.” Bilbo had generously offered the perusal of his books and manuscripts with Thorin (the more important ones safely tucked away in his study), advising him in no uncertain terms that he was not to tear them anymore than they already were. Apparently his threats had gotten through the dwarf’s thick skull.

Bilbo shook his head. “I was thinking -- I thought, earlier -- last night, to be precise. Well, the time matters not -- why don’t you check at the butcher’s today? It’s been a few days, surely the meat must be done and dried by now.”

Thorin watched him warily, as if expecting a trick. Bilbo looked innocently back at him. “And you can take the grain to the miller’s, see if you can get some flour made up. Then we can make some bread.” Bilbo wondered at that; maybe Thorin could take some of it to the baker’s and someone else could do the work for a change.

That seemed to settle whatever suspicions Thorin had in mind, and he nodded. “I’ll go,” he said, snapping the book shut.

Bilbo winced at the treatment of its tender pages. “There’s no need to hurry -- Thorin! We can have breakfast first!”

***

The soap, aided with Bilbo’s constant rubbing, lathered up on the fur lining Thorin’s greatcoat. When he rinsed it clean, he was glad to see pink water wash down onto the ground. Again and again he worked the fur and fabric together, lathering up soap and rinsing it clean again. A bit of tedious work to clear his mind, coupled with fresh air and the heat of the sun on his shoulders -- he felt as if he could take on the world. Well, perhaps just the Shire. Or a rather tight-lipped dwarf, at least.

When he finally had it all out, he laid the heavy coat against the bench besides him and used a stiff, bristly brush to clean the rest. He found a few seams that had been doubled and redoubled until the thread formed a ridge where several pieces of fabric met, but all in all Thorin’s greatcoat was in good shape. Bilbo fluffed up the fur and left it to dry, taking out his pipe. Time for a smoke and a ponder.

Deep breath, and exhale. The smoke streamed out with Bilbo’s thoughts: Thorin was -- lost. He had come to Bag-End because he --

Wasn’t certain what he was doing in Erebor? Bilbo furrowed his brows. A possible explanation, since the kingdom was so ravaged in many ways: commerce, population, army, and etcetera. But if Thorin had come for counsel -- no, that was really a stretch. Balin or even Dain would be better help.

They were asking him to do something he didn’t want to do? Simple enough; Thorin just wouldn’t do it. Or he’d find a way to do it on his terms.

The heirs? Fili was a solid fellow, dedicated to his family, and Kili had matured quickly (though he was still moments of boyishness) and both would do fine jobs -- years from now, of course!

Nothing with Erebor, then.

Bilbo could feel the beginnings of a headache and sighed. Perhaps he should move out of the sun soon.

Back to the issue at hand. Something had gone awry and Thorin was in hiding? Now his imagination was running away from him, Bilbo shook his head ruefully.

So, then, really and truly, he had just come to visit. To get away for a bit. Not that Bilbo could blame him -- Erebor was lovely in its own way, but so dark and cold! Bilbo shivered. That begged the question of why he was acting so strangely. Wasn’t certain what he was doing with Bilbo? No, ridiculous, Bilbo had proven himself time and again and Thorin couldn’t doubt that -- Bilbo squashed that thought before it could take root. Thorin wouldn’t cross Middle Earth just to test Bilbo’s loyalty for the hundredth time (that nasty Arkenstone business was test enough).

So, Thorin was lost. He had come to Bilbo’s home and said odd things and tried to make himself useful and stayed out of Bilbo’s way except when he wasn’t, swinging in and out of Bilbo’s space like a pendulum, back and forth and back and forth.

Which could only mean -- Bilbo’s normally robust stomach swooped down to his knees. But Bilbo feared he was wrong, and was snatching at a smoke ring, slight and wispy and full of holes.

Someone –- a Longbottom, by the looks of him, walked by with several sheep at his heels, calling a greeting. Bilbo raised a hand in return. He watched the hobbit’s waddling gait, the sheep following his rhythm easily. Bilbo had thought that such simplicity had returned to his life, to what remained of his years, the last of his great adventures behind him. But he had forgotten about dwarves.

***

It could not have been too much later (though in Bilbo’s mind, a decade had passed) when Thorin’s broad form came up the hill. He looked as if he were stomping as he went, though maybe that was the size of his boots, for Bilbo knew he could move with quickness and surety when needs arose. He was minus any additional bulk, thankfully, and opened and shut the gate perfunctory. 

“Meat’s coming up on a pony,” Thorin said as he came up the steps. Bilbo nodded, and tamped out his pipe, since it was nothing but smoldering ash at this point. Thorin eyed it wistfully for a moment, then noticed the overcoat on the bench. 

“Ah, yes, I’ve got it all cleaned,” Bilbo said, patting the article gently. 

Thorin picked it up and studied the fur lining before turning it over and around, inspecting it. 

Bilbo waited in suspense before Thorin finally made a sound deep in his throat and gravely thanked him. 

“Of course, my pleasure,” Bilbo said, before frowning as he realized he had said he enjoyed cleaning blood out of Thorin’s clothes. 

Thorin didn’t notice, just tossed the coat over the crook of his arm before turned his attention back to Bilbo. 

“Well, what are we making today?” 

Now? Bilbo thought, both eyebrows raising and falling, though not at the same time. “You want to--”? He turned to point at the kitchen with his pipe. 

Thorin nodded. 

“Aren’t you…” Bilbo cast about for a courteous term. “Er, tired?” 

“From a walk?” Thorin scoffed. 

“Well,” Bilbo said doubtfully, then smiled meekly when Thorin turned his challenging gaze upon him.

***

Perhaps…Bilbo thought, his earlier ponderings coming back to haunt him.

He demonstrated how to press the dough into the pan, and then slid the pan towards Thorin.

Perhaps, if Thorin was really here for the reasons Bilbo was beginning to suspect, perhaps it _could_ be done.

He watched Thorin’s thick fingers carefully prod the dough into the little cups, and nearly laughed at the absurdity of it. Hands that held blades and axes with ease, had cut through steel and struck through stone -- were making pastries, instead.

Thorin flicked his eyes up. “What?” He said shortly, although his voice held no real bite.

Bilbo glanced at his own fingers. He had done this since he was a child, and his own attempts had been guided by his mother. Did Thorin’s mother ever…? He could not imagine it -- or rather, her.

Thorin was waiting for him to speak, hands hovering over the tray.

“You never…?” Bilbo waved around them at the kitchen.

Thorin shook his head. “No.” He hesitated, fingers still lingering on the pan, though he spun it in a lazy circle. “I like it, though.” His voice had lowered, but was loud enough to carry to Bilbo’s ears. Not embarrassed, exactly, but quiet, speculative. Maybe Thorin had liked baking as a young lad, or _would_ have liked it if --

It was clearer then, than it had been before, Bilbo could see. Thorin’s life, measured in kingdoms and battles and war. If Bilbo had been handed a pen in his youth, or a rolling pin, Thorin had been handed a sword and armor.

Even if -- even _if_ \--

Bilbo turned away, hiding the shaking of his hands by straightening a towel on its hanger.

Impossible. Thorin could no more stay at the Shire than Bilbo could -- 

The clattering sound of the gate to the cooker opening made Bilbo turn around, and he watched Thorin slide the pie into the cooker and then shut the gate, absently wiping his hands on his trousers.


End file.
